HD 'All Manner of Sins' BottomDraco Fest 2013
by tigersilver
Summary: 'Love Actually' adaptation: Draco is the Prime Minister and Harry is Natalie. A Non-Magic AU, un-compliant with anything Battle, and the great majority of the dialogue is lifted nearly verbatim. Draco's brain is mine own, sadly. The title is based on the Prime Minister's most brilliant line: 'I love that word 'relationship'. Covers all manners of sins, doesn't it'
1. Five Weeks

**itle:** All Manner of Sins  
**Author:** **tigersilver**  
**Prompt:** PROMPT #150  
**Adapted from:** The film 'Love, Actually'  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco  
**Word Count:** 11,000  
**Rating:** R  
**Contains (Highlight to view):** *Much internal ranting and ridiculousness on the part of Draco Malfoy and his libido. And very little else, and certainly positively nil literary value, considering what I done did here. It's fun, though? I do hope.*  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Same goes for the film 'Love, Actually'. The transcript source used is: . and all rights to the film 'Love, Actually' are the property of the owners. No part of this work was intended to infringe upon copyright and no profit is to result from this fanwork adaptation.  
**Notes:** With thanks and gratitude eternal to the Mods for endless extensions and to my Betas L and S for their sapient thoughts and lightning turnabouts. By rights I should've dropped out of this Fest gracefully some time ago, but my prompt was for **phoenixacid** and I'm a stubborn cuss and adore her to little bits-and-pieces, so I damned well didn't, sorry. I make every apology for all other errors, as they are absolutely mine own.  
**Summary:** As my prompter desired, this is an adaptation of the film: Draco is the Prime Minister and Harry is Natalie. This is entirely a Non-Magic AU, un-compliant with anything Battle, and the great majority of the dialogue is lifted nearly verbatim. Draco's brain is mine own, unfortunately. The title is based on the Prime Minister's most brilliant line: 'I love that word 'relationship'. Covers all manner of sins, doesn't it?'

* * *

Five Weeks to Christmas:

Draco goes in to No. 10 Downing with a bloody ridiculous hand wave.

"…And this is Harry; he's new here. Like you."

Little does he suspect his very brain is in imminent danger.

"Hello, Harry."

Not to mention his 'nads.

"Hello, Draco. I mean, sir. Shit, I can't believe I've just said that. And now I've gone and said "shit". Twice. I'm so sorry, sir."

Yes, those as well.

"It's fine, it's fine. You could've said "fuck" and we'd have been in real trouble."

"Thank you, sir. I did have an awful a premonition I was going to fuck up on my first day. Oh, piss it!"

Draco falls fathoms fucking deep approximately two minutes after he enters No. 10, which—were his constituents to become aware—would be political suicide. It's horrible. He can't bear it. One look and it's over, he's done for.

Green, _green_ eyes. (Toad green, poison green, grass green, blinking at him from behind spectacles—augh!) Black, black hair. (Made to bury a man's hands in and _tug_.) Pert arse on a skinny frame—too skinny? (No…more wiry and compact.) Mouth!

That mouth _is_ intriguing. Fortunately, this new PM fellow is made of slightly sterner stuff. (And has _charming_ been mentioned? _Charming_ should ought be mentioned, absolutely.)

However, only his forward momentum ('Just keep walking, Draco', he may've told himself fiercely) and good old reliable Pansy carry him out of what might very well have descended unto a highly absurd social situation involving his own staff. PMs aren't supposed to drool over their staff. There's likely a law against it.

Yes, it's frowned upon. Draco's pretty sure. And behind him he can vaguely hear Harry whispering to someone, so it's quite probably there is someone in the room already frowning other than good old Pansy. (Who frowns a lot anyway and is not always a reliable guide. Draco has found one gathers more flies with honey than vinegar. Pansy is ruthlessly efficient in her frowning, though, so point in her favour—wait, where was he again?)

"Did you see what I did there?"

_Draco _saw. That is the crux of his brand new problem, right there. Defined.

The someone addressed by this darling new Harry in Draco's life—maybe it's his new housekeeper? Minerva, was it?—replies, "Yes, I did."

Draco decides he instantly likes the woman Minerva, mainly as there isn't even a smidge of derision in her amused reply. (Also, she too sounds dreadfully efficient and good old Pansy absolutely requires some sort of matching book-end, if only for the sake of karma.)

"I just went 'blurh'," Harry sighs quietly, but there's a hint of a breathless giggle to it, as if he'd been struck by the absurdity, too. Bless him, he's utterly freaking adorable, Harry is, especially flushed like that and picking at his trousers pockets anxiously. Draco would like to devour him on the spot, actually.

"Sir," Pansy says—er, frowns.

"Hallo, there," Draco burbles back, a bit madly, because this greeting thing, he can do this, even codswalloped and gobsmacked. Pity he's run out of staff to greet, though. Rather gives the show away, that.

"I'm right over here, sir. _Draco_," Pansy advises him kindly but sharply, and she too is glancing back at the huddle of Draco's new keepers, all now preparing to break forth and go about their business.

Her brows quirk speakingly as she glances from here to there, but Draco's occupied considering the one wall of No. 10 Downing, the one he's just said 'hello' to, between lengthy calming blinks, and doesn't catch the quirk, so much. Draco, to be brutal, would prefer not to be quirked at by Pansy. He'd rather prefer to bang his handsome high forehead into this lovely new wall of his, just now, and knock some sense back in, maybe. With force.

But it's all too likely a lost cause. He's just met…Harry.

"Draco? Draco, come along in then," Pansy shoos him. "Your office."

"Yeah, I'm in here. OK. Good. Thank you."

Deep breaths, that's it. Whatever that just was, what just happened, it will pass, surely?

"Ah."

He gains the safety of his new sanctum with an amplitude of gratitude. His old friend and handler efficiently takes her leave to let him get on with it, and the rising feeling of panic building in his chest bubbles high.

(Green eyes, black hair, arse and lips. Lips on _that_ mouth, and all he can think of is them stretched about his prick, and that's damned inconvenient, isn't it? For a newly minted PM.)

"Oh, no," Draco whispers aloud, sagging back against the equally lovely solid door, the brilliant one thankfully placed squarely between him and the green-eyed menace owning that potty mouth. That so pretty potty mouth. "That is _so_ inconvenient."

Oh, he's so fucked. **So** fucked, and he knows it.


	2. Four Weeks

Four Weeks to Christmas:

* * *

Paperwork, letters, file folders and tea. Paperwork, letters, file folders and _tea_.

Meetings.

_Paperwork _, letters, file folders and tea.

More meetings.

Same again, days in a row. Talking, talking, endlessly. Signing, signing, till his fingers feel as though they'll drop off.

Meetings, interminable, but he's PM and it's his bollocks on the line and he'll do this.

He owes them. All of them. The Crew, _his_. Plus some—such as his new staff. Such as Harry.

"I've brought you...oh, is it convenient?" Speak of the devil and his deep green eyes. Today there's no specs to hide them and Draco is subject to the full force of The Green. Which, if Harry were a Jedi, would be equivalent to him wielding two light sabres, and would possibly infer Draco was Darth Maul.

Draco glances up and (speaking of _mauling_?) manfully belts up against the unparalleled urge to leap over his desk and just ravage the man. Or be ravaged. Yes, on the balance he would prefer the ravagement, cheers.

"Yes, come in."

Harry smiles at him, which is terrible. "These have just come through from the Treasury..." Terrible in that Draco enjoys the effects far too much. Bright spot, that, brilliant.

"Uh-huh." He feels his lips twitch involuntarily. How can one not smile in return when Harry is smiling?

"… and these are for you."

Is that a hint of a flush on those cheeks?

Oh, and bright spot? Only brilliantly bright spot is _Harry_. The arse and all—it's fucking chompable. He'd like to kiss it, all over, from crack to hole and each deliciously firm high buttock. For a thin lad, Harry's got an arse on him that's bloody spectacular. He'd love to see that arse naked, but that's not right—oh, no. Not proper.

"Excellent." The biscuits which accompany his tea are chocolate-dipped. "Thanks a lot."

("Who do I have to screw to get tea and a chocolate biscuit around here?" He does recall saying that, somewhere along the line. However, Minerva, his housekeeper, is apparently stingy with the Hobnobs and Draco has seen only a plethora of ginger nuts and other common fare.)

Oh, now. Edible! (Right, back to Harry. Always back to Harry.)

No…tantalizing, that's the word, even when awkwardly poised as if to flee and bumping a hip into the corner of Draco's desk as he shuffles. Draco is pleased with himself for having cleared that matter up, the finding of the correct word to describe Harry? Harry should always be considered, and all his charms tallied whenever there may happen the chance.

"Er…sir? Draco?"

Oh, yes. Harry is just…just right there, with the post…and biscuits. Draco may've lost the page there, for a moment. He clears his throat.

(And the arse, that beauteous bum? Has Draco truly considered that arse sufficiently—has he done it justice? There burns the question. And those fascinating eyes, usually shy behind glinting lenses, today revealed in their fully glory, but always wondering when he gazes at Draco, all the same. As if he suspects, perhaps? That his boss is a filthy wanker filled with inappropriate lust? Hmm...)

"—I was hoping you'd win," Harry is nattering on, (oh, thank you, Father Christmas, for these small gifts! Let Harry be distracted by his own words so he doesn't need be distracted by Draco's appallingly rude staring, okay?)

Draco recalls himself with jolt from any and all thoughts of ravagement. "Gnh?"

"Not that I wouldn't have been nice to the other bloke too." Harry smiles at Draco again, which just isn't bloody fair. "Just always given him the boring biscuits with no chocolate."

"Hah." Draco's not sure what to say to that. Is it a personal favour to him, these biscuits and their undeniable chocolate-ness?

Or…perhaps not. It might be Harry's always like this, and Draco's just reading silly things into it, things that are absolutely not there. Pansy's always accused him of having far too much imagination for his own good, hasn't she? Damn the woman—maybe she's right.

"Ha!" he repeats, this time with a full serving of his customary PM-ly manliness and dashing verve. "Thanks very much. Thanks... Harry."

"You're welcome….Draco." Harry peeps at him, a glancing glow as he steps back. "Well…see you."

Draco heaves a gusty huff, relieved to be alone again (meetings, paperwork, all that.) But the thrill in his gut persists for ages after Harry's whisked himself off again, closing the door gently behind him. And that's not merely his own fancy, not at all. Because _he'd _fancy having his biscuit-bearing assistant bending him right over the surface of his file-strewn desk and having a bloody good go at him, and that is no lie, and no—yes, all right, it's highly improper to even think it, oh fuck!

"Grip…" he mutters to a nearby file folder. "Need a."

(Why, oh why is he even dwelling on this?)

"Oh gawds, come _on_, fucking _get_ a grip," Draco advises himself sternly, when Harry's long gone and only crumbs from the devoured chocolate biscuits remain. "_You're_ the Prime Minister, for gawd's sake."

The next day—gawd help him, do—the cycle repeats itself. Draco never has any idea what to say to the infuriating man, so he simply _talks_. At him. Possibly (no, probably) like a blithering idiot and not at all like a responsible politician engaged in the incredibly serious act of running the country. Which he absolutely, actually is, thanks ever so much, and no one can say differently!

(Right. So there. Draco lolls his tongue out at the metaphorical scoffers, not caring that it's likely coated in chocolate. It's chocolate brought to him by Harry, and that's all that matters. He's allowed some modicum of pleasure in his day, isn't he?)

And it's bit sad, that those blasted meetings have done not a thing to prepare for chatting up the help one fancies madly. However, he can negotiate his through a seemingly endless array of minor policy pitfalls, on the bright side. That, bloody fuck, really isn't so much of bright side when one is heart-lorn and forsworn.

A babble of details and he's drinking in every one, every time they meet. Foolish.

Who _is_ he fooling? Harry's_ his_ bright side, Draco's, and he can't even manage to carry on a decent conversation with the brassy little twerp, not without looking the utter twat. Damn.

Damn.

(Paperwork, letters, file folders and tea. More meetings. Same again, days in a row. Talking, talking, endlessly. Cue refrain, what?)

"Sir? Sir. Draco."

(There he goes again, being quietly inappropriate.)

"Here you are. The post…and your tea, sir."

"Well, then." Fortunately he's still got a lid on it. "Right. Thank you."

Yes, indubitably, the better part of valour is for Draco to keep his own bloody mouth shut and to _not_ proposition his adorable assistant. Draco knows this, as much as he knows the effing Ministry is comprised mainly of old farts and young blowhards. All of whom conspire to generate far too many file folders and perfunctory meetings.


	3. Three Weeks

Three Weeks to Christmas:

* * *

Draco's nearly willing to admit he's succumbing to the continual blandishment of those chocolate biscuits, that arse and that particular smile.

Something's changed, and (perhaps, perhaps?) for the better. Come undone, unhinged, and swung wide open. And Harry's a delight, just as Draco was certain he'd be. Speccy, adorable, potty-mouthed little prat, Draco could eat him right up in one swallow. If he'd his druthers, he would've already, but at least he can...that is to say? A PM is required to be a sociable bastard, yes.

He feels a bit creaky about it but there's no harm in being friendly, is there? In making a few overtures—in the name of good relations? He's not chatted a bloke up for ages and eons, for that matter. Best to keep his hand in, what?

"Ah. Harry."

Not that his secretary seems to notice it. (Though…there is a certain charm to Harry's naiveté.)

"Sir."

Draco regards the latest collection of pointless paper and then finally allows himself the pleasure of focusing on the vision poised before him. Harry's like bloody Snow White—or maybe Sleeping Beauty, and Draco could quite happily see himself in the role of the Big, Bad Wolf. There's also something horridly awkward about remaining seated whilst Harry stands patiently waiting about on the other side of his desk, rocking just a bit, heel to toe; Draco would much prefer to make his way round and have the man within touching distance. But he makes do with an attempt at conversation instead.

"Thanks. Harry. Erm, I'm starting to feel... uncomfortable about us working in such close proximity every day and me knowing so little about you, it seems elitist and wrong."

(Also, Draco's been bloody dying of curiosity. Literally.)

"Um." Harry shifts from one foot to the other, which allows Draco the further pleasure of watching his body move under those damnable well-fitting business clothes he's wearing. "Well, there's not much to know."

"Ah…haha." Right—_that _sods it. Total conversation killer. But surely Draco can pull a decent sort of dialogue out of this morass? Details! Details, then; he'll winkle them out and coax his lovely PA into feeling more at ease with him. After all, he's not actually the Big Bad. "Well, erm, where do you live, for instance?"

"Wandsworth. The dodgy end."

"Ah, my sister lives in Wandsworth."

"Oh."

"So which exactly is…'the dodgy end'?"

"Right at the end of the high street, Harris Street, near the Queen's Head."

"Right, yes, that _is _dodgy."

"Hm."

(Something_ has_ changed, and it's left Draco daring. And possibly highly committable to Bedlam, but? If he doesn't ask Harry now, when will he ever?)

"Erm, and you live with your husband? Boyfriend? Wife? Three illegitimate but charming children?"

Harry has the bollocks to blush at Draco instead of slapping him silly for the impertinence, which nearly has him tackled to the ground and kissed senseless. "No," he says equably enough. "I've just split up with my boyfriend actually, so I'm back with my mum and dad for a while."

"Ah. Sorry." (Draco is **_not _**sincere in this 'sorry'. He is so insincere, he's practically a'tremble with it. _Not_ that Harry notices.)

"No, it's fine. I'm well shot of him. He said I was getting skeletal." A casual hand wave indicates a fit—and yes, all right, possible too thin—body under the light button down and tight dark trousers Harry's wearing. "Like a stick."

"I… beg your pardon?" Draco nearly swallows his tongue. Silly thing. He rights it, as no doubt he'll be called upon to make more conversation, however…awkward. But…nice. All the same. And, ah? What's this about 'skeletal'?

"He said no one would fancy a bloke with thighs the size of twigs. Said they made my arse look silly, up atop them, jiggly like a jelly._ Not_ a nice guy, actually, in the end."

Draco's nodding, nodding, as if he understands; _he doesn't_. Would really like to murder this git who's offended his Harry, and then been bloody rude enough to dump him flat.

"—it's all right; he really _was_ great galloping prat and not so much my type—"

"Hngh! Well!" Draco grits his back teeth together with force, because of it, the outrage. "Bit of a tosser. Well shot of him."

And…and? Harry's still huffing his recalled indignation, examining his own nicely trim legs in their wool weave with a canny eye, turning out his pockets in his hip bones as if to say ' Here, Draco. See how perfectly these lovely bony hips are made for your greedy mitts to grip them?' It's too bloody adorable to watch. Draco is more than content to simply adore. And…then…also babble. And swear, apparently. Along with Harry.

"Bugger him, the little fu—!" Draco gasps, gnashing.

"—I meant!" Harry's indignant, and _not_ hearing; thanks be to gawd, and all that. "Said _I _was malnourished! Straight to my face and all, as if Mum didn't feed me gallons of mash every night! Pathetic," Harry snorts. "Blind buggering bastard."

"_Bastard_, blind buggering. Yes—check." Babble. He's good for it; Draco can do that. "Oh, God. Did you have this kind of problem?" Though he really must stop, right smart! "Yeah, 'course you did, you saucy minx."

Oops! 'Saucy minx'? Did Draco just hear himself say that aloud? Ah, er, gone too far?

"Errrr…?"

"Er…sir?" The 'err' is infectious, and spreading fast. Harry's gone all puzzled at him; Draco desperately seeks to regroup.

"Right... You know, erm... being Prime Minister, I could just have him murdered."

"Oh!" Harry's startled. He blinks and Draco's hair is practically blown back by the wind gust brought on by those eyelashes. "Ah…Thank you, sir. I'll think about it."

"Do," Draco drawls superbly; regrouping _is_ his specialty. "The SAS are absolutely charming. Ruthless, trained killers are just a phone call away."

"Yes, all right…?" More blinking, quite rapid this time.

"Yes!" Or, perhaps not. Draco's actively occupied realizing he's just offered up to his PA, and he has lost his bleeding little mind, or what's left of it, hasn't he, and no, he can't seem to stop. Mucking everything up further. "Seriously, Harry. I meant it."

Harry…poor dear Harry? Has adjusted his spectacles and is sporting two high spots of colour on those fascinating cheekbones of his. Draco's reaction is gut-deep, silent and immediate:

Head-desk! Head-_wall_! Right behind Draco, nice and solid—shut his stupid mouth by use of percussive force, possibly? Oh, how he wishes he could! Where's the charm and the charisma that got him here—the bloody drive to succeed? Oh, he's well enough as PM, that's all right. He can manage. But Harry? Harry's…Harry's something unobtainable. (Harry, Draco's hind brain chortles gleefully, has had himself a boyfriend and admits it! There is just cause for Draco's discombobulation, yes? Yes!)

"Sir! I really must be—ah, I'm sorry, you were busy, so…?"

Now Harry is definitely blushing, and shifting from one polished loafer to another, his specs glinting in the light as he turns about.

"Well, erm…ah. Thank...you, sir? Dunno what to say, really, but I, um—I must be off now. But again—thank you."

"Pleasure's all mine." Draco does his very best to appear nonchalant as Harry whisks himself round the door's edge. "Of course. Think nothing of it. Always on offer."

Oh god. Still. Yet. Out of Draco's reach. Dodgy neighbourhood is right, this, and him the PM. And not a stick, not at all!

(_Not too thin_. Perfect.)

If he could just manage to summon the words to say it aloud, how Harry's really rather perfection, specs and all, dodgy neighbourhood…atrocious taste in exes and all that? Doesn't matter, not a bit of it. No…not what that blighter said to his Harry at all; far from it. Just perfect. In human form.

Fit. Like a Rolls Royce. No—a Jaguar. Fit and fleet and not fat. Trolleys of tea and tidbits of his life, his family—life well outside 10 Downing. And then he's always disappearing around corners, having left chocolate biscuits, and he's never quite right where Draco can conveniently have a grab at him.

Not that _he_ would, Draco Malfoy, PM. Wouldn't do. Would it?

(He admits he may've gone off his head, just a little, thinking about Harry, just now. Draco even admits he's a teeny-tiny bit obsessed…maybe.)

**Fuck it.**

He trails up to his bedroom finally, round one in the morning, after all the staff's bedded down for the night and the most urgent sheaves of paper have been properly handled. No hope of seeing Harry banging about No. 10 this late in the day, is there? No. Harry's safe home in Wandsworth, no doubt having tucked away another helping of his mum's carb-laden cookery and is _not_ dreaming of his new Prime Minister _at all_.)

But that's the life, isn't it?

Draco sighs, disconsolate. That's the life, if one can call it that. Bit lonely, actually, being him.

Wanking again. Yes. _Lonely_…

[Right, something's changed, yes, but not necessarily the right thing.]


	4. Two Weeks

Two Weeks to Christmas:

* * *

Okay, all right, yes, change is in the air, right along with the unseasonable snow they've been having. Draco's _never _known this, quite like this! Fireworks, like Guy Fawkes, zooming through his bloodstream? Harry, making eyes at him, undeniably? Flirting?

Harry, his lovely secretary, his secret torment, has been flirting. Dead on, spot on, cannot be denied, flirting. With him, Draco.

And then?

The wanker, the fucking wanker, the snake-eyed, gormless bully, right in the midst of his first Official Visit has to gall to remark, "Excellent." This he drawls, straight to Draco's face, having just been introduced to Harry in passing. "My goodness, that's a pretty little son of a bitch. Did you see those pipes?"

Of course Draco's seen those pipes. Those are, in a way, a very odd way, his pipes. They are Harry's legs, behind a pair of useless trousers (dark blue today, and Harry's rump is just delicious in them) and they are perfect. No one alive other than Draco should be allowed to look at them…that way.

"Yes, he's terrific… at his job."

There! Diverted, and Draco and the rude wanker move on to business. That should've been the end of it; it wasn't.

"Well, now, that was an interesting day."

"I'm sorry if our line was firm." A sharky, serpent-like smile is directed towards Draco, one he resents very much. These US politicos should be sentenced to fewer teeth. "There's no point tiptoeing around today, and then just disappointing you for four years. I have plans and I plan to see them through."

"Absolutely," Draco shoots back, quick as anything as he has 'plans' as well. And old Fork-tongued Fuckwad here could use a bit of a comeuppance. "There is one final thing I think we should look at. Very close to my heart. If you could just give me a second."

"Hah!" The cretin has the gall to chuckle. "Right, right." Yes, Draco determines. His first instinct was correct: this man is a slippery scum and in spades. "Sure, now, _I'll _give you anything you ask for. As long as it's not something I don't wanna give."

He's only popped out of the room for one moment, Draco is. But it's one moment too long.

"…Hi."

The President waves his tumbler-full at Draco, and it's a bit like a red flag. Certainly Draco _sees _red.

"It's great Scotch."

"…Draco…" Harry? Harry visibly cringes at them both, easing away from where the _real _bastard in this godawful scene playing out here has him literally backed up against a wall. "I'll, erm... I'll be going, then."

Draco briefly wonders if it is permissible to bash in the so-called Leader of the Free World's forehead with a decanter of Scotland's finest whisky. He has just determined that it _is_, when…

"Harry," the wart on the anus of the whole planet hisses after Draco's hastily retreating secretary, clearly having no idea his very life is in imminent mortal peril and there may just be an International Incident. "I hope to see much more of you as our countries work toward a better future." His eyes are glued to Harry's bum, the invitation for Harry to have a little fling for profit is scandalously evident.

Draco's breath catches in his throat for an instant, a long instant. If Harry should…if _his_ Harry? If there's even the slightest chance of his Harry…?

"…Thank you, sir." Harry might be a potty-mouth normally, but when it comes to delivering a level set-down he has full command of the platitudes. One last cold-eyed green stare at the offensive pile of shite hailing from America and Harry is well out of the study, unscathed.

No—oh, cheers. Bravo! It's thankfully over and done, this horrible day, and Draco's at last gained the privacy of his quarters and has space to properly brood and fume, finally. Which is brilliant, as he's a great deal to brood and fume over!

(Harry, making desperate eyes at him, panicking and clearly uncomfortable. Pressed nearly up against the wall by a loudmouthed brass-bollocks sneaky prat of an American politician. Ewwww!)

Faugh! **It's an outrage!**

_Fucking _sodding rude Americans, upstart _Americans_! Boorish, bloody gaspers! And that particular snake-in-the-grass is bloody well _married_, isn't he? With kids of his own? And still has the 'nads to scent after Draco's own innocent little biscuit-bearing secretary?

Draco Malfoy is livid. He's fit to kill, and his temper has officially just boiled over. Justifiable homicidal rage, is more like—that's what_ he_ feels. No one would know it, but he does. He does.

(And, by the by? Not just only the issue of Harry, but fucking well _remove _those greedy grubby foreign fingers off_ his_ military bases, _his _standing treaties, _his _monetary system and _his _goddamned fit staff! Bloody! Bloody jumped-up bucolic Ugly Americans! That thing is their President! _President_? No! Giant talking head—practically noseless—bloody grasping capitalistic puppet!

It's been but one single moment taken to tip the balance in Draco from _happy_ to _furious_; one open door and he strolls in, all unexpecting, and sees that—is confronted with _that_. Dreadful. Hideous and horrendous. An insult that transcends nations—NATIONS.

Fucking wastral! Wanky grabber! Slimy cheeseball! **Arse**!

Draco paces; cannot cease dwelling, conversely cannot bear to recall watching Harry's eyes widen, would've given anything in his considerable as PM power to prevent it. The green gone all thin and flat, and that sharp-cut but gorgeous face pinched tight with barely disguised distaste. No one touches Draco's Harry. _His_ lovely Harry, whom _he _can't even have (or touch, or fondle, as that is a pleasure reserved for rude wankers from the dodgy end of Wandsworth, apparently!) Dog in the manger, yes, all right, but!

He can_not_ bear it, that's it, end story. It shall _not_ happen again, _not_ on Draco's watch, and it's a bit fortunate he's PM, and has a weapon at hand. No! It's a bit inevitable, the coming fall-out. It'll be on a nuclear scale, politically, and Draco's always possessed a way with words, hasn't he. Words are a politician's weapons of choice, really. Tromp, tromp, tromp, then, in the best British oratorical fashion, a la Winston, and according to the old ways; Draco will march on and this upstart smarmy poisonous serpent of a grasping grabby-handed foreign gasper shall be made a hash of, veritable mincemeat, and in the largest public arena Draco can bring to mind: before the world's Press. The world's Eye.

He writes his own damned 'Report of the Official State Visit' speech, and internally damns poor Pansy for offering her able assistance, shooing her off when she offers. This is become a grudge match, cheers, between him and that snake-tongued git and Draco is more than game. He'll do it himself.

"I love that word 'relationship'. Covers all manner of sins, doesn't it?"

Draco pauses for one lingering momentous second before delivering his _coupe de foudre_. With a smile.

"I fear that this has become a bad relationship. A relationship based on the President taking what he wants and casually ignoring all those things that really matter to, erm... Britain."

A brilliant, brilliant smile. Americans do not have the corner on cosmetic dentistry, no.

"We may be a small country but we're a great one, too. The country of Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to that. And a friend who bullies us is no longer a friend. And since bullies only respond to strength, from now onward, I will be prepared to be much stronger. And the President should be prepared for that."

('Relationships?' Bad or good, and sod all best intentions, most still doesn't quite work out, in the end; Draco knows this, all too well. His and Harry's, for one example. But Draco will take his lumps if he must, and it's all good, even if it's a damn crying shame he can't take up with his own PA, no more than Old Snake-Tongue here is allowed. Right. Good enough, then, to be going on with.)

"We may be a small country," Draco may or may not have told the gathered Press, with his best charmingly ferociously boyish smile.

"—Sean Connery, Harry Potter—" he might've thrown about, carelessly, and even the international press corps _fucking love it_, are all supping his speech up with a bloody spoon, aren't they just?

"…should be prepared for that."

Draco flashes that trade-mark grin of his around the room like a bloody beacon to ensure his intended effect and arches the one particular eyebrow of his, the one on the left which his own sister refers to as the 'Blond Slayer'. He bobs his well-groomed coif in just that one especial manner his sister also claims is purely cruel, it's so fucking charming and likeable and sincere. Yes, sincere. Because Draco didn't get to be the PM by playing Mister Nice all the bleeding time, did he? No—there's a certain amount of cutthroat-and-backstabbing involved, yes, and sincerity is integral to it, oddly enough. His constituents love Sincere! And Draco is so game. He's made of game, blast it! And in all the many games played out here, he is clearly the victor. The Fork-tongued geezer now knows it, too. Gone all red as a common carnation in bloom, and all perspiring too, hasn't he? Humiliated. Well, sod him.

"Thank you."

At the end of his speech Draco hears the muffled cheers but distantly. Pansy and Greg and even Blaise; they're all present. Albus and even McGonagall, too, so even Draco's staunchly grim Scots household engineer is plumped firmly on his side—and then there's …his Harry.

Harry. It's been for him, all of it, every word. Not on behalf of Draco's country, much as he loves her. No, it's all been meant for the sake of the one green-eyed bloke gazing at him wonderingly from the very bitter edges of the crowd, and Draco's been gone fathoms deep since the start and is well drowned. He so knows it, too, not that knowing improves his chances at all, nor even Draco simply being what he is naturally—a charming and quite wily politician, out for the main chance, always. Just the same as this piss-poor excuse for a human being standing by his side on the podium.

No. Nothing could ever make it better, no, but telling the arsehole upstart Colonial git to go and fuck the hell off is a fine fucking start. Relief, yeah? Excellent! Brilliant and all that. One menace shooed off stage and good riddance, too.

His Harry is safe from molestation; Draco has ably managed to accomplish something, then.

Still. Yet_. But._ Draco has absolutely no idea how to advise a bloke 'I love you'. And he's fucked, he's so fucked. Doubly, trebly, with a blender—he _is_ fucked. Because he can't do that. (Harry's watched him, eyes wide. He'd seemed a bit impressed, and that's all good, but?) Draco can't very well tell a man 'I love you' when the man seems to have no clue, really, that Draco's been sunk. Sunk his battleship, lost his mind, is hopelessly smitten. Looney as a tune.

And—there's no denying it, but he absolutely cannot afford to tell a man how he feels for that man when he's the PM. The still-very-much-closeted PM, cheers for it. It is as simple as that. The public will not stand for it, sadly. This is the Nineties, sure and certainly, but there are still rules to be followed. Cast-in-stone rules of proper public conduct, whatever the EU might dictate. Draco daren't openly flout them. Not even for Harry. Perhaps _especially_ not for Harry.

Ridiculous! (Ridiculous to want someone this much and not be able to have him, nor even attempt a go at having him.)

In a while—a terribly long tiresome while—Draco is aware they've all gone away and No. 10 Downing is quiet again, aping the home it should rightly be, but isn't, as he's pretty much a confirmed bachelor, isn't he?

'Not time for that, sadly' he'd told the President and it's true, and truer still that Draco Malfoy's _history_. One dead PM, walking. Handsome, young, charismatic, full of higher purpose?—but doomed! Of a certainty. Inscribe it directly upon his tombstone: 'Felled by a stellar arse, a pair of amazing eyes and a bloody perky attitude.' Also? 'A foul mouth, a sense of humour and a heart that's big as the world. With _biscuits_.'

Love, yes, love. Draco's soul mate, if there is such a thing: he's gone and dug him up, right in his own territory. After bleak centuries of looking-not-looking, and then bleaker eons of giving it all up entirely, for the sake of his future career, Draco has. He has! (Oh...Harry.)

(He can't have him. No.)

(Well...Draco might be able to have him, yes. Yes! Pansy's ever so good with the spin-doctoring, isn't she? But only if…)

(If and only if he oversteps the boundaries of good taste and proper PM-ly behaviour completely, that is. The PM is not supposed to chat up his own staffers. His male secretary, salaried by the governing body to slave away on Draco's behalf, pre-shuffling his file folders and conveying him a cuppa when Draco most sorely needs one. It absolutely smacks of sexual harassment, doesn't it? And then…really, if he acted upon impulse, Draco would be no better than he should be, no better than any of the other predators out there.)

(Draco can't have him.)

"It's your sister on line four."

Pansy buzzes through the next afternoon and Draco eyes the crackling speaker with a feeling of dread. He's been sadly cast overboard on a sea of doubt-and-delight alternating and he's not exactly been minding the time. Also Harry's been mysteriously absent this day and there's been no chocolate biscuits to fling at the creeping depression a sleepless night brings.

"...Sister, sir..."

"Ah." What? Sibling alert? Oh, blast, no. "All right." He gingerly takes up the receiver. "Er, yes, I'm very busy and important, how can I help you?"

Seriously, history. Draco only wishes there was someone to tell—that's he's mad in love and maybe, just maybe? Maybe….? In a far distant galaxy?

"_Have _you gone completely insane?" Hermione's voice, on the other end, is the exact same as always—chiding and dreadfully bossy-boots. What a question. The answer would of course be 'yes'.

"You can't be sensible all the time," Draco protests. Er, no, he hasn't really. Sailed close but not quite gone over the edge yet. Not that he could say anything of the sort to Hermione, of all people. Besides, she's clearly caught up in the aftermath of Draco's Press Conference, and literally huffing with delight over it. Good old Sis; Draco thinks he might keep her.

"You can if you're Prime Minister," Hermione informs him, giggling. And demonstrably, superbly proud of her brother.

Which is just as it should be.

Draco grins right into the receiver—first smile of the day. Oh, right! He's this one sister, his only, actually? A must-be-bloody-_psychic_ sister, to ring him up in the midst of his existential crises and hand him a little much-needed praise. A bloody beast of a sister but then—she's all right. Really, she is. She'd understand love, of all people. She's married hers, the cunning bint. Love—she's got that bit down pat, right? For a long time now. Love. Kids and a devoted hubby. Draco could maybe talk it over with her, his quandary, spill his soul out? (Can't have him, really wants him, oh, Harry. Harry.)

But, no. That would be monumentally stupid. As it's really not…love, exactly.

(And honestly. That is **not **what's been happening here, not between Draco and Harry. PM and PA, rather. Lust, maybe, and a great lot of appreciation of body parts and spunk, specs and too-tight trousers, and some small amount of genteel flirtation—and then there's Draco's jealousy and his stupidly undying desire and too, this horrible creeping fondness and—whoa, Draco! Rein it in, idiot! Not love.)

Oh, no, this won't do. Draco's barely rational, as it is. And he's absolutely not talking to the Queen of Bloody Rational, not about this—not one word. Hermione go hang. One cannot tell one's formidable sibling one is considering flouting all the conventions Britain has kept so admirably afloat this age. Even if it would stand as a landmark stride forward socially and be the (probably, likely) supreme example of the _right_ thing to do. For a good many of Draco's constituents.

(Politicians don't always do 'right', however; they do 'expedient'.)

Draco is saved. In a god-sent and miraculous act of perfect timing, Pansy rings through again, on one of other lines. "_Sir_?"

"Er? Hey, now, Hermione. It's the Chancellor on the other line. I've got to ring off—"

"No!" Hermione scoffs, loud and clear. "It isn't!" Which coaxes a second smile out of Draco, but he can't afford to smile, and it may be that he's forgotten how, actually. Just last night.

"No, it is, seriously, Sis." And Draco's so damned grateful it really is the honest truth it's the Chancellor awaiting his ear to beat, as much as the Chancellor bores him to tears every time they speak. "I'll ring you back, sorry."

Which is something Draco has absolutely no intention of following through on, the return phoning. It's as much as his shabby life is worth, subjecting his every ruddy bloody emotion to Hermione's steely scrutiny. As what she'll say to him is _not_ what Draco wants to hear. ('Can't have him, Draco.')

"No, you won't! You'll—"

Draco doesn't in fact hear anything more, as he's already switched away, his head sunk in his hands and his head pounding and his lips dutifully muttering pointless soothing sounds at the Chancellor. God, but he's…

Lonely. Surrounded by the whole bloody world, and bloody lonely.

Actually.

He can't do this, no, he cannot. This simply must _end_. Draco can't bear it. It must end, and it's his responsibility to make it happen.

All right, then.

Draco wanders, a bit lost. Be more of a home to him if he had somebody to be home with, but that person's gone off long since, back to the dodgy neighborhood. And the bloody radio, someone's left it switched on. It blares at him, the sole sound of all that sea of Christmas-enjoying humanity milling about outside the bounds of Ten Downing.

"It's almost enough to make you feel patriotic, so here's one for our arse-kicking Prime Minister. I think he'll enjoy this. 'A golden oldie for a golden oldie," the DJ burbles. And it's….god _no_, save him, it's a song that has the old pelvis swinging, despite the brain. Bloody club anthem, from Draco's own silly-arse youthful heyday. Pointer Sisters, and _Jump_, damn it!

_'Hold me. I'll give you all that you need. Wrap your love around me. You're so excited I can feel you getting hotter. Oh baby, I'll take you down, I'll take you down. Where no one's ever gone before. And if you want __**more**__? If you want more, more, __**more? **__Jump for my love! JUMP!'_

Clearly, Draco he must dance, there's no help for it. So, he does. Pointer Sisters, and isn't it grand? No one's PM right now, not him.

(Oh, yes, and he's seen a film like this once. Should he consider stripping down to his pants? Is there a broom to be found anywhere in No. 10 Downing? Ridiculous notion! Likely not.)

No—no. That's really not...no. No. He was younger then and _not _the PM. Doesn't need a broom to jump about with; definitely doesn't require an audience. Still? He's perfectly happy, absurdly in the flow, dancing down the stairwell and through all the empty—until—_bloody woman_! Where _does _she pop up from? Witch!

As of course he's caught, fair and square: McGonagall. But hey? Politician!

"Yeah, erm, Minerva, I've been thinking," Draco spouts instantly, sobering. "Can we move the Japanese ambassador to four o'clock tomorrow?"

"Certainly, sir." No one single person should be that full of deadly smirk. At least Draco is aware it's a _fond_ sort of smirk; he's earned that much. There_ is_ that.

"Terrific," he replies, all butter-wouldn't melt, but not—really. "Thanks…so much."

"Sir."

Right, carry on, then.


	5. One Week

One Week to Christmas:

* * *

"Yeah. Pansy, my darling, my dream, my boat. Ah... Need you to do a favour for me."

He's not wanting to do this; it must be done.

"Of course," Pansy replies, immediately. "Anything for the hero of the hour."

Draco makes a _moue_ at her, a sour face-pull; he's no hero. Well, alright, what he's doing right now might be vaguely heroic, but no one who matters to Draco will ever know it. Except for him, and he hardly counts, right?

"Don't ask me why, and don't read stuff into this, it's just a weird personality thing. But, erm, you know Harry who works here?"

Pansy's eyebrows rise sharply. "Harry? The awkward one? Claims he's starved? Underweight?"

Draco bridles instantly. "Ooh, would we call him 'starved'?"

But Pansy's right back at him. "Draco, right. I do think there's a pretty fetching arse there, yes, sir. But…twiggy otherwise?" She coughs discreetly. "Er, ah. Built like a fence rail, our Harry."

Draco instantly concludes Pansy's blind as a bat and quite possible wilfully so, but no matter. "Yeah," he says. "Well, whatever, erm... I'm sure he's a lovely young man but I wonder if you could, erm... redistribute him?"

(It's the last ditch-and-stile to go over. Really, it is. Someone's got to do it, and it's up to him, as Harry's not about to—Harry doesn't even seem to realize—Harry has no clue of what danger he's been in recently. Or the scandal, or the disruption—or the fact that it's simply wrong, for Draco to pursue him.)

For Draco to think that he might love him, as he does, _he does_. And…he can't, he _can't._

"It's done."

Ah, Pansy…so marvellously _efficient_.

So ends Draco's worst bloody week in ages.

…Er? No, not quite.

"Yeah?"

"Sir?" It's a new secretary blithely sashaying into his office, bearing a tea tray and the post; not Harry. "Prime Minister?"

_It's not Harry_. There are no Hobnobs on the tray. It's not the same.

"Thank you," Draco says, swallowing down bile. He doesn't really care for—but that's not important, not now. "Thank you. Very much."


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue:

* * *

"God, _you_ weigh a lot. A tonne or more."

"Draco! _There_ you are—I've been waiting ages!"

They fling arms about one another, and Draco uses the opportunity to count down Harry's ribs, whilst being careful not bang his lover about with his briefcase.

"Oomph! Yes, here I am. And I was kidding, just now. Did you even eat _anything_ while I was away?"

(Harry doesn't weigh a tonne, not at all; he's far too skinny again and Draco's instantly resolving he'll have to make certain to feed his Harry an excess of biscuits and beefsteak to make up for it. And to provide them both energy, because it's been too long trip and tedious away and Draco needs this one little thing? One little thing, that's all. Which is to say, 'shagged'. Yesterday.)

"You're wasting away, darling," he tisks. "Don't make me worry."

"Oh, shut your silly face," Harry sasses, hustling up even more closely to Draco's chest and forcing him to drop his satchel altogether. "Deceitful prat, I'm perfectly well, cheers, been eating mash and pasta like mad; you know how Mum is? And what's more? _I _happen toknow exactly what _you _want, what you _need, _my big, bad PM. And…" He grins, the daring one that always twists Draco right 'round his little pinkie, every time. "I'm game, love, ever so game. You?"

He grabs at Draco's arse cheeks, a double handful, and that leads instantly to heated snogging.

"Oh! …God, _yes,_" Draco gasps, when he can.

Draco is game for anything to do with Harry, really.

"And you'll have it, every bit of it, ducks, and never mind what I ate or didn't," Harry promises him, green eyes very serious behind the slight askew spec. "_Not_ important."

"No…"

"What's important is you're back again and I missed you, something fierce."

And the shout-outs by nosy reporters and the popping flash of the slew of cameras makes not a damned difference; been there, done that—no longer important. That little crises has been nicely weathered over, ta. Besides, Draco boasts a very decent arse on him and he knows it. The public will likely only appreciate him all the more for it, too. Between that and the Eyebrow Arch of Doom, he'll have them coming and going.

"I just want to show you how much, all right? I'll give it you, everything, with all of my heart. Also all my nice fat dick, Draco," Harry whispers for Draco's ears alone, and that's all he needs hear to make this particular journey's end brilliant. "That's yours, too. Right where you want it. And I know you want it."

"...Aungh!"

(And sexy promises aside, and hasty groping, this is without a doubt 'actually love', because Harry does, actually. He does, and Draco, as well, and he positively cannot wait for a great lot more of Harry's brand of Biblical 'knowing' when they're finally at home again and not stuck in this bloody airport terminal. And that's not to even _mention_ all the bloody queers and poor closeted souls in the whole of the country, who are likely glued to their tellies as their favourite-ever PM is blissfully molested by his boyfriend, and who will keep their blatantly 'out' PM firmly appointed for years to come.)

(Heh!...To _come_.)

End.


End file.
